“I need to take care of this,” he said.
“What is that, Khan?”
“Nothing important.”
This time, and for a good reason, Lena did not believe him. She knew what it was that hung from the chain around Khan’s neck.
• • •
Lena supposed that it was night. It had been some hours since Khan had left with her empty bowl.
She knew that she should sleep, but she could not. The idea that her father’s wild story might actually be true had taken root in her head and was branching out into a thousand different nightmare scenarios. Mumbai. Kolkata. New Delhi. Watching the first man-made nuclear explosion at the Trinity test site near Alamogordo, Robert J. Oppenheimer, the father of the atomic bomb, had quoted from the Bhagavad Gita: Now I am become death, destroyer of worlds.
In the nightmares of her imagination, Lena could see the mushroom cloud spreading across the city, bringing death and destruction in the form of blast and fire and radiation. She could see the Sikh temple in New Delhi with its stunning gold dome crumbling as the nuclear shock wave swept across the capital. She could see Spencer Plaza in Chennai on fire, the silhouettes of hundreds of the dead etched into the few walls still standing by the flash and heat of the explosion. And she could see her own beloved Mumbai, the Dharavi slum blown flat and burning even as radioactive fallout scoured the district clean of life. The lives of people she loved. Lena shuddered in foreboding at the clarity of the vision. This was how Cassandra must have felt as she contemplated the fall of Troy. Powerless.
The need Lena felt to take action, even action that might well get her killed, was almost overwhelming. She had recognized the plastic badge Khan had retrieved from under his shirt. Lena had worn one herself during a summer internship at Caltech. It was a film badge dosimeter and it had only one purpose, measuring exposure to radiation.
She surveyed the room, looking for something that she might be able to use to her advantage. A weapon. Maybe something that she could use to signal for help. She knew Morse code. When she was twelve, she had built a working telegraph for a science fair and for nearly a month she would communicate with her family only in tapped-out dots and dashes. Her father had been considerably more enthusiastic about this than her mother. And much to her mother’s irritation, she and her father had enjoyed long conversations rapped out with their knuckles on the dining room table or the dashboard of the car. SOS was easy. But did that mean the same thing here in India, or was it just American?
The contents of the desk drawer were not especially encouraging. There was a roll of tape that had gone dry and yellow, a movie industry magazine that was nearly a year old, a few staples but no stapler, and a small tin of paper clips. The mental image of Lena attacking a terrorist, even one the size of Umar, with a handful of paper clips almost made her laugh out loud.
Then Lena noticed something that gave her pause. The desk lamp was plugged into the wall on the far side of the room near the door. The extension cord ran under the carpet, and Lena saw that the plug by the door was the only one available.
At Stanford, she had taken as many practical-engineering courses as her faculty advisor would let her get away with. She preferred practice to theory by a wide margin. One professor in an applied-engineering class had been a stickler for safety protocols. “Do you have any idea how much paperwork I have to do when one of you baby-faced newbies kills yourself in my class?” he had asked.
Safety was just danger turned upside down, and Lena realized that she could apply one of his warnings to her current predicament.
The instructor had outlined for the class some of the more common ways people hurt themselves working with electricity. Then, for a laugh, he had offered some of the less common. One anecdote had stayed with Lena, at least in part because at the time she had found it incomprehensible.
“Someone really did that?” she had asked, somewhat incredulous.
“Right out of the gene pool,” the professor had answered.
She unplugged the lamp and removed the shade. The bulb was incandescent, which was what she needed. The fluorescent bulbs in the ceiling fixtures would not work for what she had in mind.
She unscrewed the bulb from the base and wedged the glass globe into one of the desk drawers. She hesitated, uncertain about how best to proceed. There was only one bulb. One shot. If she got this wrong, there was no “undo” button. Was it better to apply gradual pressure or crack it open with one firm shove? It was essential that she preserve the delicate contact wires inside the glass. With a mental shrug, Lena made a choice. She pushed gently against the drawer with the flat of her hand, increasing the pressure bit by bit until she heard the glass crack. She examined her handiwork. The tungsten filament that connected the two wires had disintegrated when the bulb’s vacuum was broken. That was to be expected. The contact wires themselves seemed to be intact. The bulb had not broken cleanly. A few jagged pieces of glass jutted up higher than the level of the contacts. Lena ripped a page out of the movie magazine and folded it into quarters. Working slowly and carefully, she used the folded paper to protect her fingers as she pried off the bits of glass that clung to the metal base.
When Lena was satisfied that the contacts stood clear of the glass, she screwed the bulb back into the lamp. Pulling the extension cord out from under the carpet, she coiled it and left it lying in a loose pile by the door. Then she plugged the lamp back in. The lamp was a modern design with a thin metal body that was not too heavy. Grasping the lamp in her left hand, she knocked vigorously on the door with her right.
“Help!” she shouted. “I need help.”
Eventually, the guard opened the door. It was Ahmedani, the big one with the wild black beard who looked like a cross between a man and a bear. He would not have been Lena’s first choice. She had hoped for the vile Umar, who maxed out at about one hundred and fifty pounds.
“What is it?” Ahmedani growled in Urdu, with no attempt at pleasantries. He made it clear that he was lowering himself in talking to her at all.
“There’s a spider on the wall the size of my face,” she said anxiously in Hindi. Lena was not above playing the helpless female if it would help her get Ahmedani to lower his guard.
“I’m not staying in this room with that monster,” she continued. “You’ll either kill it . . . or you’ll have to kill me.”
Ahmedani actually smiled at that, and he stepped through the door into the room.
“I’ll crush your little bug for you, Hindu girl. You will pay me later.”
The image of the massive bearded jihadi forcing himself on her made the next part easier.
As Ahmedani brushed past her, Lena stepped back and swung the desk lamp up in a short arc, jamming the exposed contact wires of the broken lightbulb into the soft flesh at the base of his jaw right below the ear. There was a sharp popping sound like a muffled gunshot. Ahmedani straightened up as every muscle in his enormous body contracted at the same time. The lights briefly faded to brown as the terrorist’s body soaked up the massive shot of 220-volt electricity carried by the slender contact wires.
“Don’t ever do this,” her instructor had warned the group of Stanford sophomores after the laughter had died down. “Unless, of course, you’re trying to kill somebody.”
I guess I am, Lena thought sadly.
Ahmedani crumpled to the ground. He was so big that he almost blocked the door. The twin burn marks on his neck made it look as though he had been bitten by an electric vampire. Lena felt for his pulse. It was weak and thready, but he was still alive. As much as he might have deserved it, Lena was glad she had not killed him.
She stepped over his body and onto the movie set. The walls of the temple were covered with plaster and papier-mâché images of the Hindu pantheon. Vishnu, Krishna, Rama, Kali, Ganesh, and a host of other gods and goddesses that Lena did not recognize looked down on her from on high.
The temple was mounted on a raised stage. At the base of the stage was an open area where the cameras would have been set for filming. In the middle of the floor was a pile of what looked like blankets. Although every part of her screamed to get out of the building as quickly as possible, something scratching at the back of her brain made her stop and look. They were not blankets. They were aprons like the kind the dentist would drape over you before he took an X-ray. Lena stripped two of the heavy lead-lined aprons from the top of the pile. Underneath was a green steel box. The place where the lock had been was now just a gaping hole that had been cut out with power tools.
I can run for help. Bring back the police, the army, scientists, somebody.
But she knew it was not true. Soon enough, they would find Ahmedani and they would move the box. No one would believe Lena’s story, and if there was, in fact, a bomb in the box, it would explode as surely as day follows night.
But you would be gone, she heard the little voice in her head say. You would have time to leave Mumbai.
Lena opened the box.
Her heart sank.
She had hoped that she would find something relatively simple. In effect, a bomb was nothing more than a circuit. Complete the circuit and trigger an explosion. Lena knew circuits and she had hoped that she would be able to disable whatever she found inside.
Someone had gotten there first.
She could still see the part that was the original bomb and the circuitry there was relatively straightforward. Somebody, however, had connected it to a second device that was much more complicated, a rat’s nest of wiring that seemed to have no sense or structure to it. The two devices were linked through a rectangular timer with glowing red letters counting down the time remaining until what Lena had to assume was detonation.
09:18:12:28
09:18:12:27
A little less than ten days.
The light was too dim to see clearly, but the tangle of colored wires and plastic switches was there for a reason. It had a purpose. Lena tried to see the gestalt, to understand how the pieces connected into an organic whole that made some kind of sense. She could not see it. There wasn’t enough time. There wasn’t enough light.
Maybe if she could feel with her hands, she could understand it. Lena reached inside the device that was not a bomb and ran her fingers along what looked like a mixed-signal circuit built around a comparator that could translate an analog current into a digital signal. She tried to follow the conductive wire back to its source, but her hands were too big.
“I wouldn’t pull on anything in there,” a voice behind her said. Lena froze. Slowly, she turned to see Khan, Jadoon, and Umar standing behind her. The man who had spoken, however, was someone she had not seen previously. He was short and almost skeletally thin with a beard that grew in uneven patches.
“That’s a delicate device,” the small man continued in his nasal voice. “Some of the circuits are positive and some are negative. The lack of a signal can itself be a signal or a trigger. It would not be healthy to disturb the balance of the device.”
Lena understood what purpose the rat’s nest was intended to serve. It was a dead man’s switch, designed to make it impossible to tamper with the bomb once it had been set. It was the kind of thing only a madman would build.
Slowly, Lena pulled her hand out of the box.
Umar stepped forward and grabbed her by the wrist. She could see the lust burning in his eyes.
“I will teach this Hindu bitch a lesson for Ahmedani that she will not soon forget.” He pulled her close and Lena could smell onions on his breath.
Umar twisted her wrist and tried to force Lena to the ground. It felt like her arm might snap.
“You will do no such thing,” said Khan.
Umar turned on him like a striking snake.
“You’re protecting this foreign whore?” Umar asked incredulously.
Lena saw his head snap back. Khan had hit him with an open hand easily and confidently as though employing only a fraction of the strength at his disposal.
“I am defending our guest,” Khan suggested mildly. “And we have orders to keep her safe . . . for now. Why don’t you go see if Ahmedani needs help? That might actually be useful.”
Despite herself, Lena felt a wave of gratitude sweep through her.
Even so, Khan’s caveat had not escaped her notice.
She was protected. “For now.”
WASHINGTON, D.C.
APRIL 25
William J. Christiansen had a valid U.S. passport, but he still needed a visa for India. Sam knew that he could not apply at the Indian consulate in Washington through the regular channels. For one, it could take up to three weeks for the consulate to process the application, weeks that neither Sam nor Lena could afford. Moreover, this William Christiansen did not exist beyond the passport and the fake driver’s license. He had no address, no job, no social security number, and no bank account. Most important, he had no time.
There was only one person who could help. That he wanted desperately to see her and talk to her, to hold her close and stroke her hair, offered further incentive. He did not dare pick up the phone and call Vanalika. He knew for a fact that her communications were being monitored by the NSA; and Argus, he was confident, had flagged all of her lines for special attention.
Fortunately, the Indian political counselor was a creature of habit. The embassy was on Massachusetts Avenue near Dupont Circle, smack in the middle of Embassy Row. There was a small coffee shop on Hillyer Place only a block or so from the chancery building that served a gingerbread latte that Vanalika was all but addicted to. She and Sam had joked about her “daily fix.” Unless there was some pressing business that kept her in the office, Vanalika made a pilgrimage to Grounds for Appeal every day at about midmorning.
Coffee culture had come late to work-obsessed Washington, but it had arrived with a bang. In addition to the ubiquitous Starbucks outlets, the city was dotted with smaller mom-and-pop operations that sold a break from the pace of D.C. life along with overpriced coffee. Grounds for Appeal catered to the lawyers and paralegals who were to Washington what auto executives and assembly-line workers were to Detroit: the city’s sine qua non.
A day after his successful foray at FSI, Sam was sitting in an armchair covered in soft brown leather in the back corner of the coffee shop pretending to read the Washington Post and hoping that this was one of the days when Vanalika would keep to her routine. Consistent with its theme, the café was decorated with legal memorabilia and the bar was built to resemble a judge’s bench. Lawyers on their lunch break could order a “Warren Burger” or a “Felix Frankfurter.” There was also a “David Souter” on the menu, which was only identified by the cryptic note: It’s not what you think it is.
At ten forty-five, more than an hour after Sam had sat down with a four-dollar cup of coffee, Vanalika walked in off the street.
As she waited in line to place her order, she scrolled through her messages on her BlackBerry. Sam got up from his chair and walked over to stand behind her in line.
“Why, Mrs. Chandra. What a pleasant surprise.”
Vanalika started and turned to look over her shoulder. She smiled broadly when she saw Sam and moved instinctively to embrace him. But she checked herself almost immediately. They were in public, and within shouting distance of the Indian Embassy.
“Mr. Trainor,” she offered coolly, even as her eyes shone with a mixture of affection and joy at the playacting that had always been a part of their illicit relationship. “This isn’t one of your usual haunts, is it?”
“No. But I had the day off and wanted to check out the new Rothko exhibit at the Phillips Collection. C
an I interest you in joining me for a cup of coffee?”
“I think I can spare a couple of minutes.” She winked, breaking character. It was all a game for Vanalika, and the closer they came to getting caught the more fun it was for her.
A few minutes later, she had her gingerbread latte and cranberry scone, and they were sitting together in the back of the café far enough away from the other patrons that they could speak freely.
“Sam, are you all right?” Vanalika asked. “I haven’t heard from you in days. I was starting to worry.”
“Actually, no. I’m not okay. Someone tried to kill me last week, and when that didn’t work, they took my girl. Lena’s being held hostage in India by someone who calls himself Zeno. If I go to the police, I’m afraid they’ll hurt her. I need to get to Mumbai as quickly as possible.”
Vanalika’s eyes widened in surprise and, Sam was hurt to see, disbelief.
“What happened?” she asked. And then she said more loyally, “How can I help?”
Sam told her about the car chase on the George Washington Parkway and the mysterious message from the Stoics. He left out his trip to see Earl Holly in North Carolina. His old friend, he knew, would want to stay as deep in the shadows as possible, and his involvement did not add anything essential to the story he had to share with Vanalika. Neither did he tell her about Cold Harbor. Vanalika might feel compelled to report back to Delhi, and there was no telling where that would end up. Sam could not take the risk that it would get back to the Stoics and endanger Lena. He did, however, tell her about his foray into the FSI consular database and his new credentials as William Christiansen.
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